


Save Him

by awrites (awritesrated)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I have no idea where I'm going with this, I hope this works out well!, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Sherlock has abandonment issues, but thank you all for the support!, i'm just a little insecure about my writing, please don't fight over my tags!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awritesrated/pseuds/awrites
Summary: John returns to 221B Baker Street, unable to bear the memories of his broken family. Mary is dead, and he blames Sherlock, not to mention every bad thing in his world can be indirectly or directly attributed to Sherlock's actions. He remains angry and resentful towards Sherlock. What he didn't know, is Sherlock's devotion to him, and Sherlock's entirely too sad past.How will they move past all the hurts? Will John help Sherlock overcome his past?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 71





	1. Return

#  Chapter 1 – Return

John appeared at the doorway, disheveled, out of breath. He still had access to the flat, Sherlock never had the heart to change the lock or to take the keys back from him. Suitcase by his right leg, little Rosie on his left arm, unbuttoned shirt, uncombed hair. His usual brown shoes, mismatched socks. Coupled with Sherlock’s knowledge of Mary’s recent death and John’s tendency to leave a house that held memories, Sherlock could tell he’s here to stay. For how long? Well, he could deduce, but not tell the future. Especially when he’s trying to predict the actions of one unpredictable John Watson.

“Sherlock?” He called softly, and Sherlock blinks rapidly for a second before answering with an equally soft “Yes?”.

Even though Sherlock knew John’s question, he refrained from blurting every deduction he had made ever since he heard John walk up the stairs. Sherlock held his hand behind his back, hiding his nervous fiddling. He used to treat John really badly, and he lost that right by faking his own death and ruining his best friend’s marriage. He didn’t dare do anything to annoy John out of the house right now. His best friend was at this doorstep, _his_ doorstep, _their_ doorstep. John would be asking to stay, so Sherlock was going to agree and do everything it takes to compel him to stay as long as possible. Deductions put John off. Well they put everyone off, but he didn’t care about everyone, he cared about John. So he was going to hold his deductions and let John talk.

“Erm…I…Rosie and I…we need to move back.” John asked, and Sherlock replied, “Of course.” His hands were still at his back, continuous fiddling.

“Oh! O…ok.” Why did he sound so unsure? He had a place here, always, forever. As if Sherlock could refuse him.

“When?” Sherlock asked.

“Today? Is that ok?” John had a suitcase with him, he was shifting towards the door but not really moving at all, obviously he needed to leave, but Rosie in his arms was holding him back. He wanted to move in immediately it seemed, but he had more things he needed to pack at his house. What should Sherlock do then to solve John’s problem, to make himself useful? Offer to babysit Rosie? No Sherlock would love to do that, but John would never approve. He’d lost all trust from John by now. Offer to grab his stuff for him? No, John would never believe Sherlock’s kindness, plus…John hated it when he invaded his privacy. Sherlock suspected helping John pack up his stuff was a tad more invasive than John would have liked. What then? They’d need someone else to get his stuff for him then.

“Yes…yes of course. Shall I call Mycroft to get his people down to get your stuff then?” That was good, right? It didn’t sound like he was too overbearing, or overstepping.

“What? Mycroft helps people move now?” The doctor tried to lighten up the mood. Sherlock…Sherlock had been acting pretty weird and he didn’t know how to handle that. The genius held himself stiffly since the moment he stepped onto his doorstep. Almost…unconfident. And he _knows_ Sherlock was always confident. In fact, he had never seen Sherlock this nervous before. Having been at Sherlock’s beck and call for a while, John perceives Sherlock to be the most self-assured, egotistical bastard he knew. This nervous persona? It has got to be fake. It unsettled him.

“He owes me a favour or two.” How could he not? Sherlock went through hell to bring down Moriarty’s network, and his brother only pulled him out so he could help him with some terrorist take down mission. With that amount of guilt in his elder brother, he would give Sherlock any boon right now. Sherlock wasn’t above using that advantage. Wasn’t above pushing it and making it his lifetime mission to milk Mycroft of his use and benefits. Their siblinghood meant nothing to Sherlock, only John mattered.

“Alright.” John agreed without much fuss, distracting himself with looking around the living room he used to be so familiar with. Experiments littered across the kitchen table, the telly was in the same spot, actually, everything was the same as before. Except, John’s laptop wasn’t in the mess, nor was his teapot, or anything else of his. He felt a stab of regret at how thoroughly he had cut himself out of Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock whipped his mobile out to sent Mycroft a text, before lifting his head to give John a brief glance and dropping onto a chair. He felt the awkwardness of the situation, John still at the door and carrying little Rosie, and looking as unsure as he did the moment he stepped inside.

“Why…why don’t you go settle down in your room?” There. A little less awkwardness. John looked like he needed a reason to escape. John gave him a perfunctory nod and lifted his suitcase, turning towards the direction of his room. The moment he was out of sight, Sherlock jumped into action. He cleared his experiments on the table, who cared about data when they could chase his best friend away? He stared at the living room, seeing a list of disasters waiting to happen in an environment that was entirely unsuitable for a child as young as Rosie. Unstable stacks of books littered the room, knives displayed on the wall, a gun sitting oh-so-innocently on the side-table. Even the fireplace, unfenced and exposed, seemed almost too dangerous to Sherlock. He catalogued every single one of these details, and set about changing them. He haphazardly threw the books into his room, climbing up and down the stairs as quietly as he could so John wouldn’t hear him and be disturbed. He cleared every last one of those predictable disasters and stood in the middle of the room assessing it again.

Mycroft’s people dropped off John’s belongings then, drawing John out from his room. He was, suffice to say, shocked at the state of his room. It was untouched, not a single thing was different in it. The only difference was that the drawers and cupboards were devoid of his clothes and accessories and belongings. Did Sherlock just not go in at all, or did he deliberately leave it like that? He pondered that particular question as he collected the two suitcases sitting by the coat hanger, not realising how different the living room had become. By the time he was done, what was left was to decide where Rosie should sleep. In his room would be ideal, she wouldn’t be exposed to Sherlock’s experiments, and he could take care of her easily whenever she needed him. But he didn’t think Rosie would be content with just his room. He’ll need to find a corner for her to play, find some space for her to grow. That would be a hard battle to fight against Sherlock. The genius is annoying at best, and downright self-centred at worse. Rosie was his life, but not Sherlock’s. Whether Sherlock would give his experiments up would depend on how he worded his request. Appealing to his sentimental side wouldn’t work. It never did. He would have to trade him with another stimulating condition. No matter what he said, Sherlock wanted his friendship back. If he would offer that…

John walked out of the room to speak with Sherlock, and saw the drastic change to the living room’s layout. Gone were the pieces of foul smelling scientific apparatus, both chairs have been moved to one side, telly positioned at an angle to ensure visibility from the sitting areas. Yet in the middle, there appeared to be an entire carpet of empty space situated right between the telly and the chairs. Sherlock was sitting with his laptop on his lap, ignoring him as per usual.

“What happened?” John’s voice pierced through Sherlock’s firmly fabricated image of concentration, and the genius’s pulse quickens. He wanted to keep John here, staying with him, living in this flat with him, and he couldn’t help but worry one of his actions might drive him away. Not to mention the irrational fear that instead of driving him away, John became angry. Even though he knew he deserved every strike John might take at him in anger, he cannot help but fear the pain. He wouldn’t protest of course, but…he would just like to avoid it.

“I straightened things out a bit.” Sherlock shrugged faux-casually. John was able to see his little drumming finger tic though, and even if he was not as impressive as Sherlock was, he could deduce the tall man was nervous. The past army doctor only nodded in response, and set Rosie on the carpet, before going back into his room for his teapot and some of his daughter’s toys and books, going straight to the kitchen after dropping the toys and books by Rosie when he came out. He went about making tea, and took a double take when he walked out.

Sherlock was sitting cross legged in front or Rosie, laptop abandoned and apparently forgotten on the chair. He was observing Rosie intensely, and John wondered what Sherlock could deduce from the infant.

“So?” Sherlock startled and straightened up, eyes wide in shock. John couldn’t help the skip in his heart beat. “So what can you tell from looking at Rosie?”

“Oh…you want me to…?” Sherlock had the air of an unsure little boy, and John couldn’t assimilate that image with what he knew of this person. John nodded, and Sherlock looked back at Rosie.

“Ok…ok erm…” The consulting detective floundered a little before getting into it wholeheartedly, “She was just fed with some kind of powdered milk, her clothes were put on by you, she loves books more than dolls and she recognises you as her parent.”

John had always thought Sherlock’s ability to see things were amazing, and that feeling has returned. He was impressed, for Sherlock got everything right this time.

“How?” The question he had always asked. And Sherlock complied.

“Her clothes had some frills folded in, and one of her leg sleeves were folded up as well. That suggests she was dressed with someone unfamiliar with dressing a child, I’m assuming that was you. She has a smudge on the right side of her lips, some sort of white powdery product. She was in your care and you’d never drug her, plus she’s an infant that still survives on powdered milk. The smudge is still wet, not dried up into only power, so it was a recent feeding. She’s sat here for a few minutes and she touched the books about 4 times more than the dolls and soft toys. She glanced at you when you walked back in, but instead of ignoring you like a child would with a stranger, she hummed happily at your presence, hence she recognises you.” He paused right there, taking a small breath, reaching out the back of his right index finger to stroke Rosie’s left cheek, before adding with a soft affectionate voice: “She’s an intelligent girl.”

John looks at the scene with nostalgia, that was how his mother used to touch him in occasion, and felt anger building at Sherlock’s actions. He had no right touching Rosie. He ruined everything he touched, every relationship he was involved in. Rosie will not be one of his _experiment_.

“Don’t touch her.” He didn’t quite snap, and Sherlock snatched his hand back as if burnt. He angled his face away, lest John sees his desolate expression, as fear fissured up his spine. He moved back onto his chair, and resumed tapping away on his laptop. John wasn’t angry enough to throw punches, he knew John enough to deduce that. Again, irrational fear.

John leaned down and picked Rosie up from the ground, ignoring the slight whine Rosie let out and stalked angrily back into his room. Sherlock looked up in the doctor’s direction as he disappeared into the room, biting his lips in despair. Right, of course, Rosie was off limits. He’d better not interact with the little girl in the future. He did like the child though, but to risk John’s displeasure or wrath? He’d rather not.

Sherlock covered his laptop slightly forcefully, mad at his own inability to keep John in a good mood. He stood up, replacing himself with his laptop on the chair before skulking into his room to properly sulk. At least…John’s not leaving yet.

* * *

_“Please don’t leave, Mycroft. I…don’t want to stay here.” The barely twelve year old child pleaded as he held onto his brother’s hand._

_“Unhand me, little brother. Whatever your issues with Mummy are, sort them out yourself. Don’t expect me to clean up your mess.” Mycroft shook his little brother’s hands away in one harsh swipe and strode out of the house in sure, determined steps._

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes at his sudden reminder of Mycroft’s angry last day at the house. He’d displeased Mycroft with his childish demands and he left. Restraint was the key. He was desperate for his brother’s presence then, a very good motivation, but not as good as the one he had now to keep John staying here. He’ll work even harder to please John, and hopefully, he would get his friend back. Sherlock fell asleep with determination and motivation pulsing through his veins, along with a measure of uncertainty and insecurity.


	2. Wronged

#  Chapter 2 – Wronged

John woke up with a splitting headache. The night had not been kind to him, what with Rosie’s incessant crying and his own inability to assuage his anger at Sherlock, which he realised made absolutely no sense at all. Sherlock really had not done anything to warrant this much contempt from him. He looked at the clock on the wall, and realised he was almost late for work. He hastily sat up and haphazardly gathered his stuff before slipping into the toilet to get ready for the day.

He picked Rosie up from her cot when he went back to the room, surprised at her quiet observing of the room when he noticed she was awake. Hitching her on his arm as he grabbed some toys he strode out of the room. He blinked at Sherlock’s early presence on the sofa, lying across as usual, seemingly focused on the telly. John deposited Rosie gently on the carpet along with the toys, and walked into the kitchen intent on getting some tea and toast in before going out. As he was preparing his light meal though, he was suddenly aware of a predicament he never had to worry about before. Where can he put Rosie while he was out at work?

John really didn’t have the time at that moment to contemplate any feasible solutions – he was running late as it was – except a particular one which he honestly would rather avoid. Sherlock. If he could entrust Sherlock with Rosie’s care, he wouldn’t hesitate. However, Sherlock’s tolerance for sentiment has been tenuous at best, and frankly, his eccentricities weren’t ideal for a child to be close to. But he didn’t have a choice, did he? It was either entrust Sherlock with Rosie’s well-being while he was at work, or bring Rosie to work with him. He remained convinced that no matter what, Sherlock would be a better choice than an environment full of viruses and busy adults.

“Sherlock?” John called, unsure how the genius would react to his request. Sherlock turned to meet his eyes, and John rushed through it before he could second guess himself. “Can you take care of Rosie for the day? I’ll be back before dinner, but I don’t really have anyone I can call right now, so you’ll have to do. Feed her some powdered milk at least 5 times throughout the day. Make sure she burps after. _Don’t_ let any of your experiments touch her. Google everything else! I need to go!”

Sherlock only looked at him stunned. Look after Rosie? That was just asking to be a failure. And if the child was one John Watson’s daughter…well…he’s positively fucked wasn’t he? It’s a bloody trap! He didn’t know one thing about taking care of a child, there was no way google could be enough. But judging by the expectant look John was giving him, failing was not an option. Oh god…he’s going to experience pain in various severity that night.

“Sherlock!” John prompted, impatient, as he often was for a while. Sherlock shrunk into his shoulders, subconsciously making himself smaller before muttering an “Ok.” Having received Sherlock’s agreement, John ran out, grabbing his coat on the way out, leaving the coat hanger swaying from side to side before stabling into silence. Sherlock looked on in that particular direction, nerves crawling up his chest and into his throat. Shit…shit…shit…he was definitely going to screw this up.

Sherlock turned his gaze towards Rosie, and the little angel looked back at him with open curiosity. The trust he saw almost convinced him to close his eyes and escape into his mind palace. There was no way he could live up to her expectations. He sat up and snatched the laptop from under his backside, and started to search for things he needed to look out for while taking care of a child. He needed to be sure he doesn’t mess it up. Rosie would be disappointed in him. _John_ would be _furious_ with him. Once again, helplessness washed over him as he took a glance at the girl.

Sherlock read through many, many articles and blogs, and without his knowledge, a couple hours had passed. If not for the sudden wailing, he would never have noticed. He stared at the crying child in panic, not knowing what was happening. His laptop still on his lap, he almost dropped it in his attempt to rush over to the child. Fortunately, he had the mind to slip the laptop of himself before taking two steps over to Rosie and picking her up in one smooth swoop.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked her, perplexed, and developing a headache. Rosie only continued screaming her heart out. Sherlock was not a baby expert, and probably will never be. For one, Rosie was the only infant he ever had the patience to interact with. Other children only served to bore him. Not an expert, but a very accomplished reader of body language. The soft pout as he walked past the kitchen, the gurgle she produced in between wails as he made his way into the kitchen, and the almost twitch her little hands had as he passed by a certain cupboard led him to the tin of milk powder. He raised his eyebrow at the little critter and thought: _Clever, isn’t she?_

Sherlock took the milk powder down, and thankfully, there were instructions on the tin, which he followed exactly. Searching for the various tools and bottle wouldn’t have gone so well if he didn’t know how John organised his things. With a spot of inspiration, he remembered a particular emphasis on testing the milk’s warmth before feeding it to the child while reading a blog, where the mother complained for the most part about things she would never have known if her own mother never taught her. He squeezed a couple drops of the milk form the bottle onto his hand in between his thumb and index finger, and was luckily satisfied with the temperature of the milk. Rosie, having calmed down as soon as she saw Sherlock getting her food ready, reached her hands towards him and clench them into tiny little fists before opening them up again, repeating the motion several times. Sherlock stared at her, nonplussed, and handed the bottle to her.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if not for John, you know. You better appreciate him more.” Sherlock groused as he helped Rosie hold on to the bottle, refusing to let her clumsy methodology to lift the bottle up ruin the table, and the floor, and possibly every surface in the immediate vicinity. Sherlock sighed as he came to terms to the fact that he would have to hold the bottle up himself until Rosie finished her milk.

Rosie released her grip on the bottle when she was full, and she refused to down the last few drops left in the bottle. Disgruntled, he poked Rosie in the sides in mock annoyance. He left the bottle there on the table, making a mental note to clean it up afterwards, then pulled Rosie up from the chair and returned to the carpet. He deposited Rosie back onto the floor, and took his place back on the sofa. He was bored, without his experiments, without cases, without anything but Rosie to stimulate his mind, he really was unbearably bored. He was, however, more afraid of John’s reaction if he did any experiments near Rosie.

Oh! Burping! John mentioned that didn’t he? What did he mean though? Sherlock picked his laptop up again and did another thorough search on the internet. To think his activities have changed so drastically. From science to babysitting. Sherlock found the relevant information and proceeded as instructed by a site he deemed most trustworthy. Well…at least the comments below told him it was trustworthy. He gently picked Rosie back up, and held her close to himself, propping her up so she could rest her head on his left shoulder. Sherlock grimaced a little when he realised burping involved being covered by disgusting goo on his shoulder, but he quickly stripped off his shirt and put another one on. By the time he was finished, he sat on back down on the sofa, bone-tired, still bored, but content. Rosie was a very good companion. No judgement, or annoyance, just trust. Sherlock found that to be immensely refreshing. He slid down the sofa, pulling Rosie down with him, threw an arm over his eyes and rested.

Sherlock felt Rosie becoming restless after a while. Without opening his eyes, he kept his arm around Rosie as he felt the little girl sitting up on his stomach, and tentatively standing up, exploring the sofa with a curious mind. Safe with the knowledge that Rosie was entertaining herself well, Sherlock contented himself with just breathing and feeling Rosie stumble around.

The day went past quickly for Rosie, but excruciatingly slow for both John and Sherlock. John eager to go home and check how things were with Sherlock and Rosie, and Sherlock becoming more and more exasperated by the many things he had to take note of when he was with Rosie. He fed Rosie a few more times, making sure to put a cloth on his shoulder before burping, read to her, played the violin for her, even let her nap on him while he was in the chair. He developed a crick in his neck due to being unable to move while the tiny bundle rested on his lap. He could…but he didn’t want to move. She looked too peaceful to be disturbed.

John came home to see Sherlock fast asleep on the sofa, in the exact same position he was in when John left in a hurry, Rosie left alone amusing herself on the floor with her numerous toys. It wasn’t Sherlock’s intention, but it happened to look like he had ignored Rosie throughout the whole day to John. Sherlock’s blatant disregard – in John’s perspective – to Rosie’s health was the last nail in the coffin. John felt anger shoot straight up his spine. He strode right up to Sherlock, dragging him from the chair, waking him up in quite the alarming way, and crushing him against the wall. His arm was at Sherlock’s neck, and he carefully calculated his force, making sure Sherlock couldn’t breathe comfortably, but still able to breathe. An effective, and very violent way to make the genius listen.

“I told you to take care of Rosie!” He hissed in anger. Sherlock’s eyes began to water from the difficulty to breathe, his hands frantically trying to remove John’s arm. He didn’t know what he did wrong, but judging by John’s reaction, he must have forgotten something important. He did know this would happen at the end of the day when John came back, he wasn’t confident at being a babysitter after all. But to think he had let John and Rosie down, even after all the research and efforts he put into it, for a genius, he disappointed himself as well.

“Sorry.” He mouthed breathlessly. John merely added some more force before letting Sherlock go. The tall man now slid down the wall onto the floor, clutching his neck as he gasped in much needed oxygen. He barely heard what John said, but it surely included something like “don’t let it happen again” or some such. His eyes watered as he picked himself up, bracing himself by the wall. He looked around, and realised John had already gone to his room with Rosie, so he pushed himself away from the wall and slowly made his way to his. He didn’t bother washing up, all he could do was collapse on the bed, and he fell asleep instantly.

John seethed as he carried Rosie to his room, pacing the length of the room as he turned it over and over in his head. The fact that Sherlock could treat his daughter like that had never occurred to him. He really thought Sherlock would at least make an attempt. But if he could ignore Rosie for a whole day, what would have happened if Rosie managed to crawl into unknown dangers around the house? Would Sherlock be able to save Rosie in time? Would he even care to? John’s heart remained beating rapidly, his fear of losing Rosie reminded with each pump.

With a start, John suddenly remembered Rosie must be hungry by now. Sherlock mustn’t have fed her at all, and John would have to undo that damage made to his daughter’s growth. He stomped back down to the kitchen, Rosie still tightly hugged against him, he released her and placed her in the baby seat, and proceeded to gather all the ingredients and materials needed. No matter where he looked though, the bottle was no where to be found. He furrowed his eyebrows as he searched, sure he left it in the cupboard beside the milk tin’s cupboard. He shifted things around, but to no avail. He turned around, unlikely as it would be, he decided to search the other parts of the kitchen as well. He searched for a while before stopping by the sink, and then stared. He stared at it for a long moment, blinked, then stared at it some more. His fists started to clench, open, and shake. He swallowed the lump in his throat and put his right palm over his mouth as tears started to well up in his eyes.

Right there, beside the sink, in the bucket they used to put wet dishes, was a perfectly clean bottle, left to dry after use. Sherlock _did_ take care of his baby. He _did_ feed her. He made sure Rosie was fed and comfortable and was choked as a reward. John felt completely wrecked.

_What had he done?_

He should have had more faith in his best friend. He _should have!_ Why was it he only felt resentment and anger whenever Sherlock was involved. He couldn’t remember the last time he even thought of Sherlock positively. He numbly put himself through the motions of feeding Rosie and then tucking her in for the night before softly padded over to Sherlock’s room. He knocked the door, hoping to apologise, but Sherlock made naught a sound. He gently twisted the door knob, and opened the door slightly, and saw the most heartbreaking sight. Sherlock was curled up facing the door, clothes unchanged, tear tracks down his cheeks, redness around his neck and a pillow clutched in front of him like a shield against attacks.

Swallowing another lump, John decided to let Sherlock sleep in peace, and padded right back to his own room and settled for the night. He resolved to be less angry at Sherlock from now on. He promised to himself that he’d move past this aggression against his best friend.

He broke that promise.


	3. Promises

_“No…Daddy, please! I’ll try again, just…one more chance. I…I won’t…”_

_“Of course you fucking won’t, you pathetic boy! Because you’re not going out again!”_

Sherlock gasped as his eyes opened, and he saw the familiar décor of his room in 221B Baker Street. He focused on the door in front of him, and was alarmed to find the little displacement of dust that suggested John’s presence at some point. He swallowed a couple times, but his heart remained beating as fast as it was when he just woke up from that…particular memory. He sat up and felt his wet shirt clinging onto him uncomfortably, deciding to shower before he started his day. It had been a while since he last broke out in a cold sweat.

Sherlock was tentative, to say the least, at going back out of his room and face John’s and Rosie’s disappointment, but face them he must. For his own sake, to keep John here, with him, and not leave. Rosie’s presence was a bonus too. He make quick work of his shower, and quietly slipped out of his room. It wouldn’t do to wake anyone up if they were still asleep. John always got annoyed by that. He softly padded through the silent living room to the kitchen, and started the water boiling, as well as putting together a simple sandwich. John didn’t have time to eat the morning before…maybe this might make up for his transgression…and show him his remorse for letting John down. He ate his sandwich swiftly and settled back onto the sofa, and retreated into his mind palace. He would have to re-examine the events of the day before, to be sure he didn’t make the same mistake again.

John woke up to Rosie’s increasingly loud fussing. He groaned as he turned towards his daughter, and saw her peering at him innocently from her crib, as if she hadn’t been disturbing his sleep at all. He huffed as he got up, press a tender kiss at her temple, and went about getting ready for the day. He had to work today as well, and he’d misjudged Sherlock the previous night, he saw that now. Perhaps he could be trusted with Rosie’s well-being. John picked Rosie up when he was ready for the day, and went out into the living room, depositing Rosie on the carpet as he did the previous day. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa as usual, mind up in the clouds. He turned to the kitchen to quickly make some breakfast before he went out for work, but saw tea and a sandwich already laid out for him on the dining table. John felt some wetness around his eyes. He knew his partner, and such an obvious venture to apologise was a rare thing. John knew though that it was an unnecessary thing. Sherlock didn’t do anything wrong this time, it was John who was wrong. He took the food out and confronted the genius, and as usual, his mouth ran ahead of his brain, and spilt out without any filter.

“What is this? Is this an apology?” John winced at the accusation the words implied, and he opened his mouth to try again. Sherlock beat him to it instead.

“I…yes. Sorry…for yesterday. Didn’t mean to. W…won’t happen again.” The genius softly apologised for his own perceived wrong, and the doctor couldn’t be more mortified. All John wanted to do right then was to run. He wanted to run and never turn back. How could he have reduced a confident man into someone like this? He avoided Sherlock’s eyes as he quickly finished up his breakfast, pretending to be in a hurry, left the dishes on the table, pressed a hasty kiss on Rosie’s forehead, and with a “take care of her”, he left with his coat.

How could Sherlock not have noticed how John rushed out the door when he apologised for his actions – or lack of – the previous day. His apology was obviously not enough, and he despaired that he had ruined their friendship beyond repair. Hurting John was one thing, but failing his daughter? That was a line he knew John would keep very firm. John was wiling to give him another chance though. He left Rosie in his care again, and he realised he didn’t want to let them down again.

Sherlock reviewed the whole of the previous day, and he concluded that John was only angry when he came home, and saw something. He replayed the scene he deduced John had walked into and realised he was sleeping while Rosie was playing unattended. That must be the reason. So…don’t sleep. That’s the way to go. He looked at Rosie once more, her little tongue slightly exposed in concentration as she tried to balance a block atop a very unstable structure of blocks, and sighed. He would probably do something wrong again today, but…practice makes perfect, he supposed. He hated figures of speech, but that phrase held some truth, and in this context…he really had no other way to learn.

Sherlock’s predictions were spot on, and he didn’t know if he should cry about it, or suck it up like Mycroft told him to all those years ago. John came back that night to see Rosie balancing on his knees as he stared at the ceiling vacantly. He had a hand around her! But John seemed to think it was dangerous anyway. He had immediately carried Rosie off of him, and then promptly pulled Sherlock off the sofa by his hair and shoved him into the wall. This time, he kneed Sherlock in the stomach. So no balancing acts for Rosie then. Sherlock was relieved he didn’t see signs of John’s presence in his room the next morning.

Then the next day, he did something wrong again. He was pushed into the dining table, and he now had a bruised hip. He really hoped he could learn babysitting skills as quickly as he could learn everything. He considered asking someone for help…but he had alienated everyone he knew and were close with. He would have to do this alone.

It was when Lestrade texted with a case, when Sherlock realised his life had changed. John got ready to go out, just like everyday the past month, and Sherlock was dreading every evening more and more. He told John he had a case, that he couldn’t watch over Rosie for him, but he quickly swallowed his complaints when John straight out punched him in his face.

“How dare you!” John had hissed in rage, “After all the betrayals you’ve forced me to swallow, you couldn’t even find it in you to _help me with my kid_? After you got her mother killed?” Sherlock’s eyes had teared up at the reminder of his past mistakes. He was wrong, he knew that now. He…he shouldn’t have taunted the shooter, or display any sense of arrogance for that matter, for all the trouble it got him into the past years. But…to have John throw that in his face, it only forced him to recognise John was still blaming him for it, and he probably will for the rest of his life. He…he’d deal with it then. John deserved Sherlock’s help, he’ll…have to give up his work then. Sherlock lowered his eyes as he mumbled an agreement, and softly told John that he would stay at home.

John stopped when he heard Sherlock’s timid agreement. Sherlock was pushing himself into the wall behind him, eyes lowered, hands uneasily grappling away at the wallpaper. John was appalled when he realised he still had Sherlock’s shirt collar in his fists, and his other fist held up as if to throw another punch. He hastily let the genius go, stumbling two steps back before escaping the scene with as much dignity he could muster.

John was confused with his own behaviour. It seemed he found fault with Sherlock almost everyday. He pushed and shoved the genius whenever he got angry, he ever _punched_ him. And he knew Sherlock was capable of fighting back! He saw Sherlock fight against well trained criminals before, what happened to all those skills? He did had it coming though. The sheer number of things he saw when he left Rosie alone with the genius was astounding. At least…he knew Sherlock wouldn’t starve his little girl. John shuddered as he thought back the a couple nights ago, where Sherlock had looked right at Rosie as she stumbled across the room, and the idiot did absolutely nothing to pick her up, or to comfort her. He just…sat there looking!

John was anxious to get back home when he left work, only to see Lestrade in their apartment bouncing Rosie off his knees as his daughter giggled in delight. _Where was Sherlock?_ He went for the case after all? After giving him his promise that he would stay?

“Lestrade! I got it! I…” John turned around to see the genius climbing up the stairs leading to their apartment, and all he saw was the irresponsible man he lived with, and gave countless opportunities to, the last month. No more…he would tolerate it no more!

“I _told_ you to stay home with Rosie!” Sherlock looked up at him in shock, and immediately tried to explain.

“I…I did! I only…” The genius didn’t manage to finish his sentence though, for John had already punched him right where he hit him in the morning again, and watched in increasing horror, as the genius spit blood as his head snapped to the right, lost his balance on the stairs, tumbled down the narrow stairway, and laid on the ground motionless. John was pushed out of the doorway as Lestrade raced down to the genius’s side, and Mrs Hudson came out of her apartment to investigate at the same time. John could only look, and though he didn’t mean to quite shove Sherlock down the stairs, the idiot had survived worse. He wasn’t worried about him. What annoyed him was how Lestrade of all people could leave his daughter in the room unsupervised. John turned around and walked up to his daughter, picking her up from the ground and hitching her on his hip, he went into his room and cuddled and cooed at her until she went to sleep. He placed the little girl into her crib, and went out to get some tea.

John was surprised when he saw the detective inspector getting ready to barge right into his room just as he opened the door.

“Lestrade! Hey, so how did it go? Is Sherlock fine?” The DI didn’t seem inclined to answer him at all, and John furrowed his eyebrows, “surely he’s not that bad off?”

He saw Lestrade clench his fists as he spit out a myriad of words John couldn’t make sense of.

“ _Not that bad off?_ John! How could you say that? How can you not see how wrong this is? You put Sherlock into the hospital!”

John merely scoffed, “Oh please! He’s walked off worse than that. A mere fall down such a short staircase? He’s not _that_ badly injured.”

If it were anymore possible, Lestrade’s nostrils flared, and his eyes widened even more. Through obviously clenched teeth, he said, “except he had several broken ribs, a bruised spine, damage to his trachea, multiple bruises all over his body…oh! And my personal favourite, _broken fingers_!”

John reared back at the DI’s words. Oh god, Sherlock was hurt that bad? Just from the fall? But…

“It couldn’t be. A fall from the stairs couldn’t cause that much damage…how did he even get broken fingers from a fall? And trachea? Who’s the doctor treating him?”

“I didn’t say those injuries were caused by the fall John…I’m saying the fall has merely brought many things to light. Those… _bruises…_ ranged from a day to a month old. I know for a fact Sherlock had not left this apartment since the day you moved in, John. What does that tell me? I don’t need Sherlock’s talent for deduction to realise what happened John. _What did you do to him_?”

It couldn’t be…no…John’s throat narrowed as he processed what Lestrade told him. _He_ did this? But no! He hadn’t done anything to warrant a bruised spine! Or…or broken fingers! It couldn’t be him! He’d admit the trachea might be his doing…and maybe the bruises too, but… _broken fingers?_

There was simply no way!


	4. Annoyance

#  Chapter 4 – Annoyance

Sherlock woke up to murmuring around him. The haze in his mind slowly ebbing and he furrowed his eyebrows in concentration.

“What do you mean it was John? They’re best mates! I mean…I admit they seem to be having problems recently…but John?”

“Molly, I know it’s hard to believe, but…Sherlock didn’t leave that flat for the past month. I checked, I even asked Mycroft. The only time he went out was yesterday evening when he went out to get some milk powder for Rosie. They had run out and he asked me to get it, but I told him I didn’t know the brand and I offered to take care of Rosie while he went out to get the powder. I didn’t expect John to go ballistic about him going out for such a short while and give him a right hook right in front of me! He didn’t even check Sherlock out and he’s a _doctor_. It was…I cannot imagine what Sherlock must be living with the past month.”

“You…you mean John punched Sherlock for getting milk powder for his daughter?”

“Well, now that I think about it, Sherlock’s hesitance when I told him to go get the powder made a lot more sense now. John basically punched him for _going out for any reason_ , not for getting the milk powder. He didn’t even let Sherlock explain!”

Sherlock groaned in pain as the haze faded. His head hurt quite a bit, but not as much as everything else. He was doing very well ignoring the pain his transport had been in for the past weeks, but now as he slowly regains his senses, the pain was coming in all at once. He felt a rough hand squeeze his left hand, and another smaller, more dainty hand landed on his thigh.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked softly, “You awake?”

Sherlock forced his eyes open, and blurrily blinked at the DI. He moved his sight slightly down and saw Molly leaning over his legs to look at him with what he assumed was worry in her eyes. Sherlock swallowed as he got ready to speak but found he couldn’t say anything beyond an embarrassing croak. Molly seemed to understand the sound he made for she swiftly walked behind Lestrade to the side table and poured a glass of water, sticking a straw in there. Lestrade, having seen what Molly was doing, helped Sherlock sit up, propping him up with a couple of pillows. Molly carefully held the straw to his lips, and as shocking as it was for Sherlock to accept any form of help, he clearly recognised his helplessness at this moment.

Sherlock’s hands were splinted and bandaged, his torso was tightly wrapped, and he had gauzes all over his body that he could feel. He winced as he swallowed the water, his throat’s soreness protesting the friction. He kept at it anyway, feeling his thirst more worthy of his attention than the pain he so desperately needed to ignore.

“How…” Sherlock grimaced at the pain he felt as he spoke, and swallowed, “How’s Rosie?”

Lestrade at his side only scowled at him. “Rosie’s _fine_.” Sherlock stared at the Inspector, confused of his reaction. Why was he mad?

“John…he doesn’t have the patience. Rosie insists I play the violin every afternoon, if I don’t, she’d fuss endlessly.” Sherlock forcefully threw the light blanket to the side, his intension obvious and in the other two occupants’ opinion, quite idiotic. Was he honestly going back to the flat to play the violin for his abusive friend’s daughter, with his _broken fingers_? Molly rushed to the other side where Sherlock is attempting to slide off the bed and placed both hands on his shoulders, just as Lestrade grabbed his arms from behind.

“What do you think you are doing?!” The exasperated and slightly frustrated voice Lestrade used gave Sherlock pause. He didn’t want anyone else of his friends annoyed with him. John was enough to deal with. Maybe he should listen to his other friends’ as well. Hard as it was to admit to himself, Molly and Lestrade are both important aspects of his life, and he cared for their presence as much as he cared for John’s and Rosie’s. He had already failed the latter, he should at least attempt to placate the former.

Sherlock let his body follow the movements of Molly and Lestrade’s force, and slipped back up the bed. He could feel more than see both their eyebrows raised beyond their hairlines. He sighed as he settled back down, and asked them what happened after he lost his consciousness. He was slightly shocked he didn’t ask that before, but in his defense, he was preoccupied with all the pain he was enduring.

“We brought you here on an ambulance, I called Molly so you’d have someone with you while I confronted John. Sherlock, why didn’t you _tell me_? I would have helped! You knew that didn’t you?” Lestrade seemed genuinely distressed that he didn’t call for his help, and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he should react.

“But I did! I let you help with Rosie yesterday – it was yesterday right? – and I let you pull me back up the bed just now! I…I did!” It was the first time the two of them saw Sherlock this way, completely distraught and trying so hard to justify his own actions. Sherlock was worried – extremely worried – that Lestrade got upset with him for not doing as he said like John so often did. Now that he thought about it, he upset his friends quite frequently, and he didn’t think he had the privilege anymore. He’d broke their trust, and he didn’t deserve the consideration he had been enjoying before.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade started, Molly only capable of standing at Sherlock’s side, eyes fixating at his blanket as she processed the information she has been receiving until now, and he reached out to pat the genius’s shoulder. The unexpected violent flinch that followed was all it took for Molly to let out a distressed sob, and Lestrade to snatch his hand back instantly. The Inspector continued as if it didn’t happen, an obvious but oddly effective attempt to calm Sherlock down from the impending panic attack. _Why did he react like that?_

“Sherlock it’s alright, I wasn’t…I’m not blaming you alright? It’s not your fault.” Sherlock scoffed at that, but otherwise stayed silent. He lowered his eyes immediately after though, suddenly ashamed of his behaviour. He never paid attention to it before, or cared, but right now, he didn’t think a scoff was the right reaction to give his worried friends. He had to put a lid on his mannerisms. Whatever Lestrade was saying, _it was his fault_. That was the cold hard truth, and Sherlock had that truth supported with countless facts. He screwed up, and John got angry. He couldn’t control his body, and Lestrade became upset. He made John angry, and made Lestrade upset, and that made Molly a crying girl. _Everything_ was his fault.

He kept his thoughts to himself, he wasn’t stupid. Expressing those thoughts out loud would result in an even more upset Lestrade, and probably drive Molly away, and he definitely didn’t want that to happen.

“Sherlock?” Molly called, and Sherlock gave her a questioning hum in return. He normally would be running his mouth off with random deductions, mostly at the new bracelet on her wrist and the dress she was wearing, but he deferred to his recent resolve of not spouting deductions with the knowledge of how angry John always gets and wary of Molly’s reactions. He didn’t care before, because Molly was an amazing friend and never abandoned him, but he believed that of John before and he screwed that up didn’t he. It probably would benefit him more to hold on to his deductions for now.

“Are you in pain? Do you need more painkillers? I read your chart and…there’s quite a lot of…painful injuries.” The genius shook his head no almost as soon as Molly asked her question, and she fell quiet after that. The awkward silence continued until Lestrade decided to explain what happened with John.

“So…John claimed he didn’t break your fingers, or break your ribs. In fact, I cannot fucking do anything when there wasn’t any evidence! I’d love to throw his arse in jail, but obviously, I am as incompetent as you always said.” Sherlock’s head shot up in alarm. He didn’t think his past transgression would be brought up in the present. His eyes widened in shock, he shook his head again in protest, letting out a pitiful half-sound that somehow conveyed both his fear and his anxiety. Molly placed a hand on his arm, and Sherlock stared at her pleadingly. _I didn’t mean it!_ Molly only smiled at him sadly, and patted his arm. Sherlock had no choice but to subside, filing one more thing he needed to stop doing into his mind palace. He was already overwhelmed with those things currently on his list, what was one more?

Lestrade, entirely oblivious to Sherlock’s distress, focused instead on his anger and utter disappointment in one of his closest mates’ actions on another of his best friend. Unknowingly, his anger and disappointment towards John was wrongly translated to anger and disappointment in Sherlock in the genius’s eyes.

“I listed your injuries, telling him how they ranged from a day to a month old, and stated the fact that you haven’t really left the flat for a month, and asked him what he did to you. And do you know what the arsehole told me?! That you must have sneaked out and gotten yourself hurt chasing a criminal recklessly. I even told him you didn’t work on any case, but what did I know? I was only the Detective Inspector, not like I was in charge of any cases in the Scotland Yard. Nooooo! Doctor John Watson knew better. Because you obviously went out and hurt yourself in some other way instead of being beaten by the doctor himself! I’ve misjudged him…I’m completely, utterly misjudged him and I even charged him with your safety when _he’s_ the one you were in danger of! And he dared to hold Rosie in his arms like he’s a loving father! What utter crap! He hasn’t been doing shit taking care of her and he knew it! And I'm no better! What a useless friend I've been! I couldn't even tell when one of my closest mate hurts one of my best friend! I'm a failure!”

The vehemence in Lestrade’s speech was enough to shake Sherlock up in more ways than one. He never knew Lestrade would be this angry on his behalf. He also never knew anyone could view John and himself and think _he_ , the unstable freak, wasn’t the one at fault. He most definitely never knew he was Lestrade’s best friend. He knew the Inspector cared, but _best friend?_ How had he _ever_ achieved that impossible feat? Sherlock had only ever been the freak, the nuisance, the annoying burden. Never had he been someone of importance, never had he been someone people called a friend, much less something as amazing, wonderful, awesome and…and _humbling_ as _best friend._ Sherlock blinked twice to keep his sudden tears at bay, and half huffed in amusement.

“Well, he most definitely hasn’t been playing the violin for her!” His tentative, _timid,_ attempt at a joke should have angered them, but Molly and Lestrade merely exchanged a disbelieving look before dissolving into incomprehensible laughter.

“John…playing the…the violin?” Lestrade gasped between his boisterous laughter, Molly giggling along with him, “he couldn’t even tap his fingers on the table with a rhythm!” Sherlock rolled his eyes at their antics, childish and baffling as they might be, Sherlock found himself unable to attach the word “annoying” to their laughter, or any noises they might ever make from this day onwards, ever again.


	5. *Announcement*

Alright guys! I have to say something because it's getting out of hand. I see both sides of the argument, and everyone is entitled to their opinions. I understand that all of you like my fics, and I'm honored. But please don't make this into an argument. We can all like my stories peacefully. Okay so we misinterpret some things, or we get upset when people misunderstand us, or we get angry when people just don't see things our way, but what's important is I can see all of you here love my fics. I'm right, right? So this stops here. No more commenting below another person to make them see your point of you, all your comments are mine. MINE! They're for me to inflate my already inflated ego and make myself feel happy that someone out there is debating and quareling about my fic. So only tell me how awesome my fics are, how shitty my characters are because I've written them to be shitty, and tell me at the end that's you really love me:) Sorry I'm joking. I don't really have an inflated ego, but you get the point:) 

Okay now hold hands and make up! 

Love you guys!


	6. Fear

#  Chapter 5 – Fear

John sat on his bed, shocked, and disoriented. Lestrade was livid, and John couldn’t blame him at all. Sherlock never left 221B, he _knew_ that. He stayed at home with Rosie _every single day_. So how did he miss Sherlock’s multitude of injuries. Internal or otherwise, how did he not realise the extent of Sherlock’s lack of health? He was a doctor, for God’s sake! _How_!

He went through the motions, feeding Rosie, setting her down for some play time. But at noon, she began to fuss, heart-breaking sobs starting and frayed nerves almost collapsing. What did she want? What could he possibly have missed to warrant such a response from his daughter? This had never happened before but he was completely bewildered. He tried everything, nothing worked. Finally, _finally_ , she got tired and slept fitfully. She was still upset, that much was clear, but he didn’t know what about and it was killing him.

John sat by her crib, staring at her as she breathed gently. Even when she was upset, she still slept like an angel. John had started to re-organise his stay in 221B since he came back, determined to find out when and how Sherlock had gotten hurt, systematically going through each day, and every recall caused a flinch, and his hands trembled at the realisation.

He remembered choking Sherlock that first day he left Rosie with him, he remembered punching Sherlock in the gut, but he might have missed and landed his ribs instead. He remembered shoving Sherlock and him stumbling into the kitchen table with such force before landing in a heap on the floor. John let out a sob as he remembered slamming the door in anger and an anguished scream right after, but he was too angry to care. If he closed his eyes he could recall with perfect clarity how near that scream had been, right at the door, choked up in pain. He must have caught Sherlock’s hands in the door, and broken his fingers then. Lord…what had he done?! He remembered Sherlock’s weak grappling at the wall as he slammed him into it, forcing him to agree to stay with Rosie instead of going out for a case right that morning. God…he punched Sherlock right down the stairs! How could he how could he how could he? His breaths have gotten short, and he clutched his shirt at his heart, hoping to stave the feelings of guilt and panic.

_Breathe._

Lestrade was livid.

_Breathe._

He had to apologise.

_Breathe._

He got up and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door without knowing how he got there.

_Breathe._

Please, Sherlock, I’ll make it right. I’ll do it right this time, just… _please._

_Breathe._

Everything went black.

Mrs Hudson watched in horror as John collapsed in front of her. He was breathing too fast, he was rambling and incoherent, and all she caught was that he needed to go somewhere, and she needed to watch Rosie. Well, it wasn’t a hardship to watch the little girl, Rosie was an angel. But to see the once strong man crumple before her was agonising and scared her more than she would admit. Sherlock was already admitted into the hospital, now John would have to be as well. What has happened to both her poor boys to make them this hurt?

She dialed for an ambulance with trembling hands, directed the paramedics before heading up to the boys’ apartment to tend to Rosie. She hoped everything would be alright. She really did. In the meantime, if all she needed to do to lighten their loads was to take care of little Rosie, then she would do it.

Sherlock was docilely accepting both Lestrade’s and Molly’s ministrations as he waited for them to decide he could go home. He was antsy, and on edge. Rosie would be fussing right about now, and he wanted to make it better, make her happy. But he couldn’t move from this bed, not if he wanted to keep Lestrade and Molly happy as well.

Lestrade sat by his side, right hand on his thigh as if making sure he would stay put, and Sherlock knew he didn’t deserve their trust, but it saddened him anyway. He’ll have to be good to earn their trust back, or at least…earn his place in their hearts back. Even if it were a tiny place, just a corner of their hearts, but he would give anything to have them back in his life.

Molly was sitting on his bed by his feet, gently – always gently – coaxing him into eating some food. He drank some of the soup, bland and tasteless as it was, and peeked at Molly to see if she was… _mollified_. He snorted inwardly at his own joke, not daring to make one out loud. She didn’t look pleased, so he forced another few spoons of soup into his mouth.

“Stop drinking the soup and _eat the food_.” Sherlock winced at her frustration, and instantly reached for the unappetising bowl of rice and vegetable. He gingerly fed himself a few mouths, daring another peek at Molly, but she was looking at him too intensely for it to mean anything but _keep going_. He grimaced, but continued to focus on the food before him. He’ll have to finish all of these if he wanted to keep Molly from being too upset. He could already feel the tendrils of fear gathering at the base of his stomach at seeing Molly’s annoyance.

Molly looked on with increasing trepidation as the once confident Sherlock shoved mouth after mouth of rice into his mouth without tasting it or even chewing it. He was methodical, and slow enough to prevent it coming back up, but anyone could see he was forcing himself to eat. What was happening? He was so reluctant to eat just minutes ago, why was he suddenly so willing to forcefeed himself?

“Sherlock? Sherlock, stop.” Lestrade reached over to hold onto Sherlock’s hand as he brought another spoonful of food towards his mouth. Sherlock shook his head, looking at Lestrade with pleading eyes. He tried to tug his hand away, he had to finish the food, but Lestrade snapped angrily at him to stop, and he couldn’t help the trembles that wrecked his body, or the embarrassing tears that began to overflow from his betraying eyes. He had no right! He had no right manipulating their sympathies with his pathetic tears. He couldn’t even eat properly without upsetting his friends. It was no wonder everybody left him. Why would anyone stay if he screwed even something as simple as eating up?

“S…sorry, sorry, didn’t mean it. P…promise, didn’t mean it.” He sobbed pitifully, breath hitching and causing his ribs to throb in pain. Molly reached over, and Sherlock flinched so hard he rocked the tray of food over and spilt everything on his covers. Sherlock gasped as he tried to clean the food up with his hands, left hand bandaged at the fingers but not stopping his attempts at all.

Molly gasped her own uncontrollable sob as she witnessed the normally put together genius panicking over food spilt over himself. She reached over to still his hands, and he froze, still apologising though Molly couldn’t figure out what he was apologising for. She asked, needing to know, so she could fix it.

“What are you sorry for, Sherlock?” Lestrade bundled up the covers and brought it to the side, going out to search for another, leaving Sherlock in Molly’s care.

“D…didn’t mean to refuse eating…was going to finish, really! D…don’t know why Lestrade got angry but…but I was going to finish eating. P…please don’t be mad, I’ll be good, honest.” He couldn’t help looking up into Molly’s eyes as he pleaded for her to believe him, he _was_ trying to be good. Molly's eyes only held anger at that moment, and he dropped his eyes immediately. She was angry, _very angry_. He tried again to implore his willingness to obey, he apologised again, but Molly didn’t let his hands go, and he didn’t know what to do to make amends.

Molly wasn’t angry at all. She was _furious_. If it was John who did this, she knew who she wanted on her table in the morgue next. How in the world could he reduce the once proud man into… _this?_ She saw Sherlock look up, but he only winced and looked back down immediately, offering more unneeded apologies. She took a deep breath.

“Sherlock? I’m not angry, see? Look at me, I’m not mad, I promise.” She gently let his hands go and tilted his head up by the chin. His trembles increased in violence, and he didn’t dare make eye contact, but he didn’t dare disobey again and he forced himself to look into her eyes. What he saw though, was so unexpected it blew his breath away. Determination, compassion, _love_. She didn’t have anger in her eyes this time. Sherlock slowly calmed his apologies as he started to breathe again. She wasn’t mad at him, he hasn’t screwed it up yet. He breathed.

Lestrade walked back in, and Sherlock grimaced as he bowed his head once more, unknowingly freeing himself from Molly’s grip, and Molly shifted her hand to the back of his neck. Molly didn’t seem mad, but Lestrade was angry at him just now. He’d have to apologise to him as well. He waited for Lestrade to finish settling the new covers over him and sit back down on his self-designated chair before he offered a timid, tentative “Sorry.”

Lestrade snapped his head up to look at him, and Sherlock jerked under Molly’s soothing touch. He could see Lestrade’s sudden movement at the corner of his eyes even if he didn’t dare look up. He expected a smack on his head and held his breath. It never came, and he let his breath out.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called softly. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to indicate his was listening, head still respectfully bowed in submission, responding with an equally soft: “Yes, Lestrade?” The detective has heard Sherlock call him multiple times before, with derision, with spite, with affection, with teasing, yet not once had he heard his own name called in such a way that made him hate. Sherlock called him with respect and fear, with resignation and terror. The tremble within his voice so tangible it could cut the air between them. He felt tears sting the back of his eyes, but he could only offer a pathetic “I’m not angry.”

Somehow, that served to calm the genius down more effectively than anything else could. To be reassured that his friends weren’t angry, to know he didn’t mess this all up, was all he could ask for. He thanked the Gods for every patience these two people gave him, and he vowed, to himself and whoever was listening, that he would obey their every wish, fulfill their every command, as long as they continued to stay with him.

A shrill ringing cut through the think smog in the room, and all of them jumped at the intruding noise. Lestrade hastily got his phone out and answered it.

“Hello…oh…no no he’s fine…yes…shit! How is he?...Which hospital?...Ok…ok…I’ll be there…thanks Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock’s heart rate started to race the moment Lestrade received the call, by the time he mentioned hospital, then confirming his deductions by muttering the name of his caller, his pallor paled even more.

John…John was in a hospital.


End file.
